The Farther You Fall
by Falcata Iberica
Summary: Post-Spellplague. Elaith meets Zaknafein. Things happen. What things? Why random of course - but those two make for an interesting pairing... still, random things are random. Or are they? Go ahead and find out. More to come as time and inspiration allow.
1. This Won't Hurt, I Swear

The Farther You Fall

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Notes and Disclaimers:

- All recognizable characters belong to WoTC or TSR or whoever. Not me. I make no money from their use and have none so don't bother trying to sue me.

- The story is intended as slash (as in male/male sexual content), and although the first chapter contains nothing of the sort and I've yet to decide how explicit it will become, the likelihood of 'very' is very high. Likewise, I've no use for 'throbbing manhoods' and no male, even a pointy-eared one, expels 'essence of ecstasy', as far as I am concerned; nor is it strawberry-flavored, ever. You've been forewarned. Run while you can.

- My knowledge of 4e is sorely limited, and frankly I couldn't care less about the rules anyway and just exploit the lore however I please (for instance, darkvision = seeing in heat patterns). So if frivolous use of the canon offends you, then once again, do run along. Nothing for you to see here.

-The above notwithstanding, I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.

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This Won't Hurt, I Swear (Part I)

_23 Mirtul, The Year of the Silent Death (1395 DR)  
Waterdeep_

A blue-white arc of light cut across the sky, a second flash followed by a roll of thunder. Elaith nearly dropped his pen, cursed and looked up from the paperwork to glare accusingly at the window. The din of clanging earthenware, rowdy toasts and shuffling feet in the tavern proper was almost drowned out by the sound of rain lashing against the glass but evidently the freak storm didn't make a lick of difference to the patrons of the Hidden Blade. They continued to drown their empty sorrows or celebrate equally dull joys with cheap drink, only to wake to a routine hangover and the inevitable repeat of the previous day. And so life dragged on, monotonous and uneventful and utterly unchanging. Sometimes, during severe bouts of melancholy, Elaith envied this mundane, predictable existence but for the most part he just felt detached contempt. One was generally responsible for one's own destiny. Chances came and went, and if you missed them they didn't always present themselves again.

On the other hand, when you did take them you ended up with most of Waterdeep's illegitimate trade and a good portion of its legal commerce and estates - and then you were stuck in a backroom of a bustling tavern in an ungodly hour, tending to paperwork that could be neither avoided nor trusted to another's eyes.

So really, was there a point to it all?

Putting the pen down carefully Elaith flexed his cramped fingers, realizing only then that his hands were numb with cold. The fire had all but gone out, permitting the unseasonable chill into the room. He rose and stalked toward the hearth, stirring the embers with brisk, impatient motions that matched his current mood. The thought of going out in this gods forsaken weather did nothing to improve it, and for a moment he considered a teleportation spell. But no. Even now, with over a decade since the collapse of the Weave, arcane magic was still too unstable, and he was as likely to find himself at the doorstep of the Blackstone manor as in the middle of Vilhon Wilds, or worse. Only a few rare items crafted before the Spellplague remained unaffected but they had become finite and were therefore worth a dragon's hoard.

In any case, he needed to at least finish with the deed granting him the villa in Sea Ward. The impoverished noble family to whom it had belonged – and what might these humans know of nobility? – had clung to it with irate determination, like a terrier with a dead rat. Their duly histrionic griping at the loss of this last shred of their faded glory had fallen just short of accusing Elaith of theft, so he wouldn't put it past them to muck up the documents from sheer spite.

With a sigh Elaith returned to his chair and the paperwork waiting for him. He propped his booted feet on the corner of the desktop, mindful of the priceless chultan wood, and picked up the parchment. He only just began to grasp the finer nuances of the convoluted wording when the door to his office opened. The Spellplague had played havoc with magelocks too, and although some of the more elaborate wards still functioned, those were now reserved for crucial locations. So here, in his semi-formal office which everyone and their grandsire's horse knew about, Elaith made due with a stout door and a couple of meatshields outside, not terribly skilled but usually capable of keeping out the rabble. Annoyed at the interruption and the lack of warning from the guards he made a mental note to have an inspirational discussion with the louts should they be alive, set the deed aside and regarded the visitor.

Swathed in a dark cloak, face obscured by its hood, his uninvited guest stood at the threshold.

Swinging his feet off the desk Elaith sat up from his sprawl, habitually releasing the hidden catch on his right bracer; the blade slid into his palm, its cool weight comforting in its familiarity. He was in no mood for theatrics, what with mysterious hooded figures barging into his office in ominous silence whilst a dreadful storm raged outside. It smacked of cheap adventure story, the tripe one indulged in when one was bored with watching grass grow. Insulting, really.

"Pray do come in," he offered, taking vicious pleasure in mock courtesy.

The visitor hesitated for just a moment, head turned to the side as if in thought, then started across the floor. Of a height with Elaith or so, the bearing was unmistakably male and the silent, predatory sort of grace hinted at martial training. Not a Lady In Distress, then, or Spurned Lover Bent On Revenge. That was fine by him, Elaith decided, and with vague amusement continued to speculate. Had he been cast in a role of a Hero With A Tragic Flaw or Villain With Delusions Of Morbid Grandeur? Bizarrely, he was beginning to develop a perverse sense of gratitude toward this poor soul, conveniently come to provide him with the means of unleashing his foul temper - and entertainment besides.

"Well?" he prompted, gauging the trajectory and the distance, lining up subtly for the throw.

There was a blur of movement and sound – metal, rasping; a glittering arc, descending – and then bright pain blossomed in his temple and everything dissolved into blackness.

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The world reasserted itself with a view of a muddy boot and, out of the corner of his eye, the hem of a cloak, dripping rainwater onto the neat stack of finished paperwork. Resentment flared, heralding a headache which he discovered next. His vantage point confused him because he could definitely feel the very familiar contours of his chair underneath… which was really quite convenient, seeing as how he was tired, and something cold poked painfully at his neck whenever he stirred. So he gave up on exploration and puzzles altogether and let his eyes drift shut. To the Nine Hells with the paperwork, and the bloody half-wit who put a boot on his desk and hung a cloak over it could bloody well go there too.

"_Vendui_', Elaith Craulnober," a male voice said pleasantly. Warm and dark, it caressed the ears. It was also entirely unfamiliar.

The form of address, though… that was another matter. He'd heard it before. And since he obviously wasn't going to be left alone, he thought he might as well try and place it. Unfortunately all that his sluggish mind had to offer was a sense of thorough, boundless exasperation, invariably tied to the time and the circumstances in which he'd been greeted in this manner…

Oh.

Elaith choked, gulped for air, and his wits cleared.

The drow crouched on the desk in front of him. The hood had come off, and the glow of the dying fire threw the ebony profile into stark relief. He had angular, typically elven features, finely wrought and set in hard lines. There was an air of confidence to him, evident even in the tilt of his head, in the languid ease with which he balanced himself, in the faint glint of adamantine armor beneath his cloak. The sternly tied white hair lent his face a severe cast but the mouth made up for it, clear-cut and frankly sensual, with a slight sardonic quirk to the lips. In the absence of darkvision the eyes were the color of dried blood, and Elaith hastily checked his perusal when he realized they were watching him with the aloof-yet-focused curiosity of a hunting cat.

Their eyes met and held and a startled trill shivered along his nerves, a… recognition of sorts, on some basic, visceral level. Elaith imagined in another moment they might be scenting each other, stiff-legged, like a pair of posturing hounds - except, of course, for the tip of a sword that rested at the hollow of his throat.

Held in a deceptively loose grip, the weapon - what he could see of it at anyway - was of superb make and without embellishments, and well-kept at that. He had apparently been stripped of the bracer which now lay discarded on the floor, and the drow's free hand was toying with the throwing knife. Elaith had a number of other weapons secreted about his furniture and his person but he could see no way to make use of them from his position, not and keep his neck intact. And the dark elf clearly wanted something since - well, he was still alive - so it behooved him to try and negotiate. Distasteful as it might be.

He still felt a little breathless, and there was a sour taste in his mouth he thought might be injured pride but he did his best to swallow it and spoke. "Is this truly necessary?"

"Is it your custom to try to kill your guests?" the drow returned. He let the knife slip through his fingers - it embedded itself in the desktop, as if to make an emphasis - and cocked his head, the gesture daring Elaith to deny the obvious.

It was, Elaith had to concede, a succinct and rather eloquent way to make a point. "The unannounced ones, yes," he said with a shrug, and winced when metal bit into flesh at the motion.

"Then I will introduce myself. My name is Zaknafein."

"You will forgive me if I do not say we are well met."

"You live," the drow countered blandly. His Common was fluent but heavily accented, which only added that much more spice to the expressive, silky-rough tones. Elaith could hardly miss the proverbial 'for now' that hung unspoken in the still air.

"Ah yes, your generosity is beyond compare. Very well, then; shall we start over? Well met, Zaknafein. How may I be of service?"

"I wish to speak with the leader of Bregan D'aerthe."

Elaith frowned. He hadn't expected that. Actually he had not the faintest idea of what this Zaknafein might want with him but he would never have guessed it to be, of all things, the role of a messenger boy to the notorious mercenary band. "I see," he offered noncommittally, buying himself time. He considered feigning ignorance but dismissed the idea. The chances of having been picked at random for such an unusual request were slim to none. Although it wouldn't hurt to learn the extent of the drow's information, in any case. "And why come to me with it?"

"I gathered, after some… research, that you have business with them."

"Ah." Reduced to monosyllabic responses - but really, there wasn't much he could say to that - Elaith spared a fleeting thought to wonder how many of his underlings would have to be replaced in light of this professed 'research'. He rather looked forward to it, should any of them have survived Zaknafein's tender mercies. Association with Bregan D'aerthe was certainly illicit, if vastly profitable, and he'd taken great pains to keep it clandestine. Or so he'd thought.

With some surprise and a measure of self-deprecation, he realized he'd forgotten the value of keeping an open mind and fallen into a trap of rigid thinking. Every dark elf with whom he came in contact was Bregan D'aerthe, therefore _any_ dark elf was Bregan D'aerthe.

Well, excepting of course the famed Drizzt Do'Urden whose sterling reputation and valiant efforts against all kinds of evil (and more importantly, the exceedingly scandalous affair involving the Lady of Silvermoon and some human, or possibly dwarf) had played a significant part in the current social and political climate. In the wake of the Spellplague those city-states which fancied themselves civilized, like Waterdeep, had passed what was now known as Fair Laws. These days anyone was free to walk the streets so long as they traded fairly and obeyed the authorities - or were willing to keep a good appearance of it.

Elaith snapped out of his reverie once Zaknafein gave an unsubtle indication of waning patience by way of excreting pressure on his sword, just so - not enough to deal real injury but sufficient to draw a trickle of blood.

"I would prefer," Zaknafein said conversationally, "not to kill you."

"Oh, good. We agree."

"Then you will comply?"

"I cannot contact him directly, whenever I please. So perhaps if you would come back – " Zaknafein snorted softly, the sound a perfect mix of sarcasm and disbelief. Thrown off his stride, Elaith forced an unrepentant grin. All this bantering at sword-point didn't come without a cost, and the headache was on him in full force by now. "Be reasonable, will you?" he tried again. "It is not as if he and I are dear friends. There are certain protocols to our communication, and everything takes time. What would you have me do?"

"You require inspiration?" Zaknafein questioned, then with a smooth, imperceptible motion shifted the blade so that its edge, razor-sharp, parted skin in a delicate, deadly caress. It left Elaith bleeding from another shallow wound. Idly the sword flicked up to nick him again, on the right cheekbone this time, and once more, on the left, before returning to its prior position against his neck. Zaknafein's face remained impassive, nothing evident on it except indifference.

Elaith froze. The calculated, matter-of-fact violence hit him with the impact of a golem's fist, and for the first time fear brushed him with greedy fingers. He recalled, with a detached sort of clarity, how he'd found the notion of dealing with the drow repulsive to the extreme when he'd been first approached. But his long and distinguished career - which had earned him several telling designations, such as 'The Serpent' and 'Crimelord of Waterdeep' - often made for strange bedfellows. And over time he'd grown inured to the fact that he, born to one of the most esteemed elven lines and raised to protect and serve Evermeet's royalty, was neck-deep into highly objectionable business with a people who wantonly slaughtered his kin for centuries untold.

And so it had been inevitable, he reflected bitterly, that eventually it all came to a crux, and one of them now held a blade to his throat.

Intrinsic, gut-level hatred burned away fear and reason in a sweet, purifying surge. It stiffened his spine and made him raise his chin, lacing his voice with haughty disdain that was purely and utterly elven. "Drow." Elaith articulated the word with deliberate, icy precision, like the slur that it was in his native tongue. "Spare me the travesty. If you mean to use that sword, get on with it; otherwise, I suggest you sit on it and - "

A chuckle interrupted him, a rich, companionable sound that startled fleeting echoes in the room. In the silence that followed the dark elf withdrew the weapon and gave it a brief once-over, as if really considering the advice. "It is good that you have balls, _Darthiir_, " he said finally, lightly, and leaning forward, permeating the close space with a complex variety of scents - rain, oiled leather and metal, alien soaps and a coppery tang of spilled blood - clapped Elaith on the shoulder.

"Do not presume to touch me," Elaith snapped.

Unfortunately the sentiment was blithely ignored as Zaknafein leapt off the desk, sheathed his sword and proceeded to relieve him of every concealed weapon in his possession, with brisk efficiency that spoke of considerable insight. Unsurprised - dark elves were normally cautious, even the overconfident ones – Elaith endured it docilely until the drow slapped his thighs apart to examine the legguards reinforcing his leathers above the knee. Then he bit out a curse, jumping involuntarily at the touch that was decidedly too personal.

"Be still," Zaknafein advised, voice expressionless, but his lips curved slightly, the ghost of a smirk.

As much to draw the attention elsewhere as make a real attempt at protest, Elaith demanded, "Do you expect me to go about unarmed?"

"Are you not safe here?"

Not missing the irony, Elaith subsided into silence. Later he would even the score, and certainly not with words. As it was, he was too out of sorts to engage even in verbal fencing, let alone another confrontation of the kind he'd just been through. All he really wanted for now was to get some rest, and that meant losing the damnable drow. "If you insist that I contact Bregan D'aerthe, I will need to go out."

"Then I will go with you."

"But of course you will. Aren't you a dear."

Zaknafein glanced up from his search. "I will not let anyone harm you," he said flatly, impervious to Elaith's efforts at sarcasm.

"I've no need of bodyguards, thank you."

"No? The ones outside your door are dead. Although they were not of much use."

"Those weren't bodyguards but that is besides the point."

"And what is not?"

" 'What is not' what?"

"What is not besides the point if your bodyguards are?"

"They were not… Bloody Nine Hells. The point is that I'd rather keep my weapons, delighted as I am to have your steadfast protection."

The dark elf didn't deign to respond, occupied with two cut-glass vials he'd just appropriated from Elaith. He unstoppered one with suspicious wariness and, nose wrinkling at the potent smell, hurriedly moved it away from his face. He looked ready to stomp on it, as if it were a cockroach that had somehow, absolutely randomly, appeared in his hand.

Elaith suppressed the urge to laugh, mostly because he suspected there'd be a touch of hysteria in it, what with that bit of a conversation he'd just found himself engaged in. "A healing potion," he said. "Also works as a salve. Handy, that."

"Really. Then why does it smell like poison?"

"Not the trusting sort, are you? Then again, I suppose since it isn't fungus it must be poison. Very well, give it here." The potion was handed over wordlessly and Elaith shook out a few drops of the heavy liquid onto his fingertips, gingerly spreading it over the still-fresh cuts on his face and neck. The smell actually wasn't that bad, just too strong in large quantities. "What you smell is _veilyrrh_, also known as dreamgrass. It's common enough but _N'Tel'Quessir_ do not know how to distill it properly for healing."

"'_N'Tel'Quessir_'?"

"Non-elves." The word meant 'non-people', literally, but Elaith saw no reason to give a drow detailed lessons in High Elven; he'd spoken the term out of habit, nothing more.

Zaknafein observed him dubiously until the wounds began to heal and fade, then resumed his efforts at disarming Elaith, indicating, with a curt gesture, that he get up and turn around. Having little choice Elaith complied though his shoulder blades itched the entire time he had the drow at his back. To his credit Zaknafein made quick work of it, at least. A fist weapon shaped to go over the knuckles joined the wide assortment of daggers and knifes, followed by a garrote and another knife, this one hiltless, meant to fit comfortably inside a boot. The dark elf surveyed the confiscated arsenal with an expression that held a touch of incredulity but was mostly approval. Admittedly, piled up on the desk like that, the heap of lethal metal did look impressive - or perhaps disturbing. Depending on one's viewpoint.

"I trust you're now satisfied I am harmless as a lamb," Elaith said primly, crossing his arms over his chest. Zaknafein, who was considering the healing potions with guarded uncertainty despite the demonstration, finally shrugged and dropped them into his belt pouch. He'd made no reply except his mouth twisting momentarily, so Elaith went on, "Well, shall we get this over with? I've had a nuisance of a day and it is quite a walk."

"Where are we going?" the drow wanted to know.

"You'll find out, won't you? Unless you've changed your mind? Say it isn't so."

Zaknafein only shook his head, though not really in answer if the look on his face - annoyance warring with grudging amusement - was anything to go by. And weaponless or not, he made sure Elaith preceded him on their way out the door.

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The storm had worn itself out and a fine drizzle softened the streets into incoherent shadows as they made their way east through the sleeping city. Wandering magelights streamed after them, threads of translucent glowing spheres in muted hues of gold, affording their passage a surreal, dreamlike quality. The lights seemed drawn to Zaknafein, to his obvious displeasure, drifting about him in lazy circles whenever he slowed like some bizarre inquisitive butterflies, beautiful and eerie in the damp night air.

"What are these… creatures?" the dark elf growled, his tone suggesting he'd been fighting the impulse to swat at the things and winning by a narrowest of margins. Clearly poetic wonder wasn't among his faults.

Elaith, whose case-hardened soul was equally unmoved, bit his lip to keep from laughing as he shrugged. "No one knows. They just appeared one day. Mages insist they aren't sentient but it is as if they pick someone they feel curious about and follow for a time. Usually they favor spellcasters."

"I dislike magic," Zaknafein said with finality.

"Oh? Try telling them that, why don't you?" Elaith suggested glibly.

They reached the wall enclosing the City of the Dead. Elaith didn't bother with the gate which would be locked at night but headed straight for the convenient breach to the right of it, masked by loose stones that looked like they were mortared solidly enough. Removing them he went through the gap first. Zaknafein followed, wary as a cat . The dark elf hadn't drawn his weapons but he looked like he wanted to.

"It is only a cemetery," Elaith told him, pleased. The drow's reaction did credit to his instincts but it was also a dead giveaway that he was a stranger to Waterdeep. There was nothing dangerous about the City of the Dead - the poor used it as a park during the day - though it did look rather imposing, in an menacing sort of way. "But look, your new little friends cannot follow you here. A shame, is it not?"

"Why have we broken into a cemetery?"

"Because it's the shortest route to the Warren." It was really juvenile, baiting the too-somber, too-arrogant dark elf with cryptic answers, but satisfying - a pleasure Elaith simply could not resist. Zaknafein's stare, unamused, didn't spare him for a long scarlet moment. "Caves, tunnels, old burial sites, that sort of thing. Your kin have this peculiar fondness for underground burrows, I can't imagine why."

In fact the Warren was peopled, for lack of better term with which to describe an occasional stray band of diggers too greedy for their own good, by gnomes and dwarves, with a rare halfling thrown into the mix. But the reasoning was sound, unlikely to alarm Zaknafein. Elaith had considered actually doing as he'd been asked - after all, what did it matter to him if a drow had some unfinished business with another drow? They could cut each other's throats twice over for all he cared. But the process he'd have to go through was inconvenient, and besides he was feeling just a touch contrary and therefore disinclined to accommodate.

Once they entered the Warren Elaith carefully picked a route that was neither too short nor too long, weaving through the maze of empty corridors at speed. It wouldn't serve to wake the drow's suspicions. Unsurprisingly Zaknafein glided beside him with ease that went beyond the mere gift of darkvision and was clearly born of life-long experience. Elaith tried to imagine what it might be like, to live always confined in this close stony darkness, and failed. He'd have fallen on his sword within a tenday.

They went by an overturned mining cart, rusted from disuse. It wasn't much farther now.

Eventually the corridor narrowed, hemmed in by the rubble piled up against the walls on both sides. It was impossible to walk abreast from here on out. Presented with the choice to take the lead or follow Elaith halted, deliberately leaving the decision to Zaknafein. The dark elf motioned for him to continue and fell into step behind him, just as Elaith had expected he would; mistrust had its uses when properly exploited. Keeping his posture carefully neutral he nodded in agreement and moved on.

They passed under a low-hanging ceiling, both of them having to bend their heads. Just for reassurance, Elaith balled his left hand into a loose fist, lightly brushing sensitive fingers against the plain onyx band encircling the thumb, feeling the runes carved into the surface. He sensed rather than heard Zaknafein's suddenly arrested stride – the dark elf did have uncanny instincts, for all the good they were going to do him – but kept on moving and so the drow resumed, following close on his heels. Elaith glanced over his shoulder, made absolutely certain Zaknafein was no more than several paces away, and stepped on a trap.

Twin stone walls crashed down in ponderous concert, blocking the path in either direction.

"_Aluve'_, Zaknafein," Elaith said, savoring the words with unholy relish, and twisted his ring. He couldn't quite read Zaknafein's expression as the dark elf faded from his view but the litany of curses in the drow tongue was well worth using up the priceless teleportation device.

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_Vendui'_ (Drow) - Greetings

_Darthiir_ (Drow) – surface elf

_Aluve'_ (Drow) - Farewell


	2. I Hunt, Therefore I Am

I Hunt, Therefore I Am (Part II)

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Notes and Disclaimers:

Reasonably safe; there's a bit of swearing in this chapter but that's about it. Not much else to say.

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_29 Mirtul, The Year of the Silent Death (1395 DR)  
Waterdeep_

Faneplen the Athkatlan hadn't died well. Despite his vaunted skill with weapons he'd not even tried for the scimitars stowed under his bed, all his arrogance and patrician airs reduced to incoherent pleading and the overwhelming scent of urine in the room. There would have been no sport in toying with one such as he, and in the end he'd gotten a far better death than he deserved, a quick and sure stab through the heart just to shut him up. It had been joyless – outright repulsive, actually - and it had made Elaith remember why he didn't usually bother to do his own killing these days.

The whore had been worse. Glancing at her by the faint moonlight, Elaith could tell that she must have been beautiful in her heyday but it had been a long time ago. She had looked used up, with her hands visibly rough from frequent manual labor and harsh lines around her mouth and eyes that no amount of gaudy paint could hide. There had been a fresh bruise on her sagging neck, an obvious mark of a cruel grip. On a whim Elaith had almost let her go but met her eyes for a brief instant and what he saw in them had stopped him short. It hadn't been the paralysis of terror; she hadn't seemed frightened at all. No, she had known what was about to happen, and had always known it would happen, and had lain on the bed-turned-abattoir in a room stinking of fear, blood and piss, silent and patient, waiting for it.

He'd bent down, then, and opened the big vein in her throat. But afterwards he'd found himself lifting her off the soiled sheets, careful of the still-pumping blood, and carrying her over to the armchair in the corner, to give her some dignity in death.

He couldn't quite shrug it off all the way home, not sure which nagged at him more - that look of utter resignation in the eyes of a nameless whore, or the absurd flash of long-discarded emotions that had no business returning.

The slumbering city blurred into a stream of passing lights. Gods, he really hated it when he got like this. He never lacked self-insight and he did not, as a rule, lie to himself. He just generally saw excessive soul-searching as worthless. The sky was blue, bears shit in the wood, and he was who he was. What was the point of dwelling on the 'why' of it?

It was probably time. Whenever he went so morose that it began to feel as if the bitterness was seeping into the marrow of his bones, Elaith spent a tenday or so at one of his more lavish estates. His companions during those tributes to self-indulgence always came from the same establishment, elegant and low-key, where exorbitant price assured beauty, skill and absolute discretion. The proprietress, a refreshingly deviant human woman by the name of Ysanne, somehow remained impervious to the appalling rapid aging that marked her race, and over the long years he'd known her Elaith had come to appreciate her verve and the sharp, if a bit caustic, wit. All an all it had become one of the nearest things to a friendship in his life, and it went without saying that he trusted her with the choice of his temporary consort, usually female and usually half-eleven, though of course never the same one.

On the other hand, sometimes life provided simpler, more immediate solutions.

Elaith checked himself midstride and straightened, leveling his shoulders, feeling the wheel turn.

He'd known all along the drow would eventually find his way out of the trap he'd had left him in; it wasn't terribly intricate, just the best he could think of on short notice. And so it followed Zaknafein would likely catch up with him, sooner rather than later. At another time Elaith would probably engage in a bit of cat-and-mouse (or was it cat-and-cat?) fun – there was a debt between them, after all, and he didn't feel that neat little trick in the Warren had even began to repay it – but not today. Today a fight was more than welcome, and Elaith was reasonably certain this one wasn't going to lie down and piss himself, betraying him of it. He could feel his lips thin and the corners draw upward, baring his teeth in a smile that held nothing of merriment.

He didn't waste his breath on words, just drew his weapons once he crossed the space separating them and let a vicious stab speak for itself. The clash of metal against metal woke startled echoes in the silence of the summer night. The drow was a darker shadow within the shadows of the doorway. He parried the sword-strike, nimbly twisting away from the dagger that followed, and said, "Very good!" and laughed, eyes fierce, alight with the same feral glee that sang in Elaith's blood. And came at him with a brutal series of attacks.

Elaith found he could scarcely answer the seamless flurry of feints and quick exacting stabs and cuts, some of which connected painfully, costing him strength in small measures. What was worse, he could see no opening in the dark elf's defenses to score a hit of his own. They were about even where power and agility were concerned and Elaith had perhaps a small advantage in reach but it was becoming plain he was outmatched in skill. That was something of a shock; it had been a very long time since he fought anyone with this much experience. The centuries-trained mastery of the weapons blended flawlessly with natural talent and savage pragmatism, and Elaith couldn't be sure at any given moment which he'd have to guard against. It was, of course, the same basic strategy any competent fighter relied on but Zaknafein had it down to an art form.

And somehow he didn't appear to tire as the fight went on. His speed actually seemed to increase, although that was probably because Elaith's own reserves were beginning to wane.

Metal bit sharply into the back of his thigh and Elaith found himself slipping as, for one terrifying moment, his leg refused to support him. He paid for that split second of distraction with a deep cut in his side. The smell of blood filled his senses and all of it was his own. He couldn't afford the pain that threatened to steal his breath, couldn't spare attention to it but the shock of it echoed through his body. He fought on, arms shaking faintly with the effort to keep his weapons up, willing himself to raise the sword and parry the thrust that he knew must follow. It never came but Zaknafein's other blade gleamed minutely in his peripheral vision. Elaith's balance was all wrong and his counterattack was an awkward side slash but by some miracle of luck he felt it connect, felt it slow the descending momentum of the drow's sword, and with a desperate sideways stagger he avoided the blow that would have cleaved him from shoulder to groin. It was all right. It was all right.

Except something wasn't.

His guard was open and he needed to bring his blades up again but his arms failed him. A wave of weakness rolled over him and his weapons slipped from nerveless fingers; Elaith thought there was pain too but that was somehow faraway.

Time slowed, dilated. The street and the familiar contours of the Blackstone manor, limned by moonlight, lurched grotesquely to one side. Blackness swept across his vision, ebbed away, and he saw the silver outline of clouds and, after a moment of confusion, realized he was going down, hard, unable to break the fall. His leathers were soaked and he could feel the blood flowing out of him and he was choking on more blood, the sharp metallic taste of it filling his mouth. Then the blackness closed down again and he fell backwards into it.

______________________

"Arrogant, stubborn _Darthiir_ – "

Elaith couldn't quite make out the rest because it was muttered quietly and in some strange tongue that was both fluid and harsh, though not entirely unfamiliar since he understood '_Darthiir' _and several inventive variations of '_vith'_.

He stirred reluctantly toward wakening. It was cold. Elaith opened his eyes. The moon was a pale distant glow in an overcast sky. He frowned in thought. Why was he sleeping outside… on the steps of the Blackstone manor, Gods help him?

Chain mail rasped and slithered against his cheek, and he reached up with one hand and found his head was resting on something leather-clad and firm. There was a chuckle from above and his hand was caught in callused fingers, preventing it from traveling further. "Another time," a voice promised with mock solemnity, rich and silky-rough, like hot chocolate spiked with _zzar_.

Ah yes, he knew that voice. Unfortunately.

Consciousness intruded with obnoxious determination and with it came pain, great red agony of it that started in his gut and spread outward, roiling viciously through his body. The same ungentle fingers seized his jaw and forced him to open his mouth. Elaith struggled weakly against it until he made out the familiar scents of dreamgrass and trefoil. He stopped fighting then, willing himself to swallow the bitter mouthful and keep it down despite the wave of nausea that hit him.

Eventually the queasiness went and the pain receded to a somewhat muted level. Elaith discovered his head was propped up on Zaknafein's thigh and his body stretched out sideways against the drow who sat cross-legged at the top of the steps leading up to the manse. He couldn't see the wound from his position. He tried to feel at it and his hand was, once again, restricted by an unyielding grip.

"Better not," Zaknafein said.

"How… how bad?"

"You've got a few hours, I think."

Elaith thought about that, somehow oddly detached from the reality of it, and started to laugh, then coughed blood, choked on it and quieted.

The dark elf regarded him warily, staring down at him as if from a height. "What is amusing?"

"Why'd you… waste that potion?" Elaith panted. "Is not… enough."

"I know."

"As well… have given it… to a corpse."

Zaknafein glanced down at him again, eyebrows arching. "This is your home, is it not?"

Oh. Elaith wondered fleetingly why he hadn't thought about that himself, then remembered the wards and laughed again. "You cannot make it… inside." The blood didn't come up this time and he found he could talk almost without gasping.

"But you can," Zaknafein said pointedly.

Elaith frowned. "With a gut... wound? Be serious."

"You prefer to die? The potion will soon dull the pain and I will help you walk."

"How… charitable. Did you not just run me through? Or will you tell me… you did not mean it?"

"I meant it. You do not seem to get the point except the hard way." Zaknafein shrugged, shifted a little, probably to restore circulation, and went on. "Your speed and strength are adequate but your stamina is lacking and your technique could use much improvement."

A sense of unreality gripped Elaith. The commentary had been delivered in the exact manner of his old swordmaster, right down to the undercurrent of stern disapproval. "You know what? Fuck you," he said with feeling.

Zaknafein snorted laughter. "I could begin to like you, _Darthiir_."

"Pity I do not share the sentiment."

"No matter. I do not need you to like me. I need you to contact Bregan D'aerthe." The dark elf squeezed Elaith's shoulder. "It will get no better, I think. Get up." And that was as much warning as he got before Zaknafein gathered his feet under him, wrapped his arms around Elaith's chest and jerked him unceremoniously upward.

Breathtaking pain burned through Elaith like acid. Brightness blurred the edges of his vision and he was grateful for it because it started to blot out the world and the agony in his gut and the fucking drow.

There was a stinging blow against his cheek.

"_Darthiir_. You _will_ get up and you _will_ walk, I promise you."

The slap cleared Elaith's wits enough to be pissed off. "You could have pulled, not yanked, you son of a bitch. Have you any bloody clue about pain?"

"Yes," Zaknafein said. His face twisted as if at some terrible memory and he seemed to fight it for a moment, breathing in deep. Then he callously hauled Elaith to his feet.

______________________

_30 Mirtul, The Year of the Silent Death (1395 DR)  
Waterdeep_

Elaith's summon was answered by a human woman, comely in an ordinary sort of way, her freckled face unlined and carefree. He did not remember her but she seemed to recognize him because she greeted him by full name, including the title, then said, with impersonal deference, "If my lord would be kind enough to wait, I will relay my lord's message momentarily." The crystal globe on the table in front of Elaith dimmed.

Settled cross-legged in the armchair by the wall, away from the room's twin magelights, Zaknafein took out a whetstone and began to hone his swords. Again. His day seemed to consist of training and sharpening his weapons. Oh, and drinking; but he managed to multi-task admirably, drinking as he was sharpening weapons. Maybe he drank when he trained too. Elaith sincerely hoped so, although there was probably no chance this one would run himself through even senseless.

The dark elf had obviously discovered the training room along with the wine cellar while Elaith was sleeping off the effects of the potent healing potions. Elaith had said nothing about it. Zaknafein was welcome to anything that kept him out of sight. At least he was reasonably clean where personal hygiene was concerned; he'd definitely bathed between leaving the training room and coming up to Elaith's study, even if he insisted on donning his armor afterwards. Elaith thought he might sleep in it, with his hands on the hilts of his swords. He didn't really want to imagine the sort of conditioning it took to develop this frame of mind.

The interminable rasping was seriously trying his patience, already worn thin by residual pain from the injury that should have been fatal, not to mention the wide variety of smaller cuts and bruises, all of it courtesy of Zaknafein. "Kindly stop that," Elaith snapped. Agitation colored his tone but he was past caring.

The dark elf looked up at him from the shadows, shrugged and put away the whetstone and the weapon. "The human kept calling you 'lord'," he noted curiously. This manner of his to phrase questions in a form of a statement was beginning to irk too.

"She was being excessively obsequious, I suppose, but it is the proper honorific for one of noble birth."

"Ah. Are you?"

"Yes."

"Where is your… birthplace?"

"Your lovely kin razed it," Elaith said flatly, hoping to end the conversation. He really didn't feel inclined to share his life story for the sake of the drow's idle curiosity. Besides, it was true, as far as the Craulnober Keep went, although he'd been too young to remember it.

Mercifully the crystal flared to life just then and Elaith steeled himself for the unavoidable headache which the multitude of clashing colors and shiny metal objects bedecking the Bregan D'aerthe leader invariably produced. Instead he saw another human face, this time a man who might be considered handsome except for the cruel line of his mouth and the pallor that was unnatural to his kind. It made his skin look almost translucent around the cheekbones and clean-shaven jaw.

"Greetings, Entreri," Elaith said politely.

The man's eyes, the color of winter sky and equally as cold, seemed to thaw a little when they settled on him. "Greetings, Serpent."

Elaith had to make an effort not to wince at the cognomen, and the muffled snort from the vicinity of Zaknafein's chair further set his teeth on edge. But he was pretty sure, given the nature of their relationship, that it never even occurred to the dour human he might be giving offense, and in truth Elaith rather liked the man, with that rigid control of his and the air of quiet competence. Entreri might lack a sense of humor and possibly manners but he talked little and usually meant what he said - and most importantly, his attire didn't make Elaith's head hurt.

Entreri was frowning at him from the softly glowing depths of the orb. "What is the matter with you? You look like Hells."

"Yes, well. I seem to have acquired a new pet. It isn't housebroken, I am afraid; it does not behave and it bites."

"Sounds like a handful," Entreri said, sounding bemused.

"You've no idea." Elaith ventured a glance at Zaknafein and smirked sidelong, feeling somewhat vindicated when the dark elf glared back at him. "At any rate, I need to speak with Jarlaxle, the sooner the better."

"He's elsewhere, Ched Nasad maybe, or… well, who knows. Anything that I can do?"

"Unfortunately, no. Any inkling of when he might be back?"

"Not really. I'll send a message if you like," Entreri offered. "But you know how well that works."

"Nonetheless." Elaith inclined his head in a gesture of thanks.

"All right. Check back in a few days, I suppose?"

"If you do not mind."

"No, it's no bother. Is that all?"

"It is, thank you."

"Be well, then," the human said briskly, his mind obviously past the conversation already. "Let's hope your pet learns some manners."

"Let's," Elaith agreed, and couldn't help adding, for Zaknafein's benefit, "though I fear the chances are slim. Anyway, good night."

Entreri gave a terse nod and severed the connection.

"Well," Elaith said after several minutes of silence. "You heard the man."

Zaknafein shrugged. "We wait," he summed up with laconic equanimity.

Elaith shot him a look of disbelief, his hands clutching into fists in frustration.

It wasn't as if he didn't see this coming but the trouble was, for all his resources there really wasn't a damn thing he could do. How exactly did you deal with someone who, out of nowhere, blatantly ensconced himself in your life and refused to leave?

Briefly he entertained the notion of simply getting up and walking away. What would the dark elf do if he were convinced Elaith wasn't going to comply? He decided, recalling the brutal handling last night as Zaknafein dragged him up the stairs, coldly indifferent to his condition, that he didn't really care to find out. He had no desire to look over his shoulder for the rest of his days if he attempted to evade the drow again. Trying to kill him… well, _that_ had gone really well, hadn't it? Not that Elaith had given up on the idea, not by a long shot, but he certainly was in no shape for it right now. And somehow that always seemed to be the case around Zaknafein.

Elaith blew out a long sigh. Feeling helpless wasn't something he was used to and he didn't have to like it.

Utterly unfazed, Zaknafein reached down for the decanter he'd set on the floor next to his chair and took a healthy swallow from it.

"How'd you get that?" Elaith asked, eyes narrowing, once he got a good look at what it was the dark elf was drinking.

"You did not reset the wards on that… thing in your wall, after you took out the healing potions."

"Has it occurred to you that it might be hidden away for a reason?"

Zaknafein frowned at the sharp note in Elaith's voice, as if not understanding. "It is only wine," he said idly.

"No, dammit, it is not 'only wine'!" Elaith could barely restrain the impulse to slug him, his temper dangerously close to slipping once again. The cost of _Elverquisst_ aside, he was apparently still elven enough to feel a pang of resentment and shame at the sight of a drow guzzling the sacred spirits. "It has significant ritual meaning to my people."

"Is the wine in your cellar also ritual?" Zaknafein inquired.

"No," Elaith said, rubbing his eyes wearily, calming a little since the dark elf had actually given way. He watched Zaknafein rise to his feet, place the half-empty decanter on the table and stride off, to the wine cellar no doubt. Far too restless to remain seated he got up as well, finding some comfort in the motion.

Zaknafein returned with a bottle of Tethir Red. He opened it expertly and sniffed at it with a measure of distrust before he brought the bottle to his mouth. "Not bad," he allowed, swallowing.

"I hope you choke on it and die," Elaith muttered, not caring if the drow heard him.

Zaknafein grinned, unperturbed. "I think not. I like it here. Your home is not uncomfortable, the wine is good and the training room is passable."

"And here's the best part: if you ever run out of whetstones, I'll bet there are some in the kitchen."

"That is good to know," Zaknafein said, mouth quirking.

"Right. Fucking marvelous. Except that this little arrangement is damnably inconvenient for me."

"That would not be my problem, would it? There is lots of room. I will not be in your way. And besides," Zaknafein took another swig from the bottle. "I believe your… guards are looking for me."

Elaith stilled. "What guards?" he asked suspiciously.

"The ones in the city."

"The Watch? What would the Watch want with you?"

"I think they did not like it when I killed some of them."

"You think?" Elaith leaned against the wall, fighting the urge to slide down until he hit the floor and never get up. "Bloody Nine Hells, Zaknafein, this isn't the Underdark. You cannot go around slaughtering people on a whim."

"No? It seems to work well for you."

"That is because I do not do it without reason."

"I had reason. They were… interfering."

Elaith sighed, uncomfortably aware he seemed to be doing it a lot lately. "Give me that," he demanded, gesturing at the bottle. Zaknafein handed the drink over amicably enough and Elaith helped himself to a hearty mouthful, wondering all the while which should last longer, his store of wine or his sanity. He supposed the wine made for a safer bet.


	3. Through The Never

Through The Never (Part III)

______________________

Notes and Disclaimers:

WARNING: explicit male/male sex

A/N: Big thanks to those who made the effort to leave a review, it is very much appreciated. I am glad the story is enjoyable so far and the characterization works. Yes, it was _Elfsong_ where Elaith had his brush with death. No, Entreri's appearance isn't just fangirl candy:). While I do not intend to explore his relationship with Elaith in detail and he won't be appearing much, he does have a part to play.

______________________

_1 Kythorn, The Year of the Silent Death (1395 DR)  
Waterdeep_

The marble floor was hard and cold beneath his back, the sword jabbing at his throat remarkably well-honed. If he sat up, Elaith thought, the motion would drive the point right through, and that really might be for the best. He didn't, of course. But the sheer fact that the thought had entered his mind was curios, in a disturbing sort of way. His convalescing body needed the exercise and he'd refused to work around Zaknafein's disrupting presence in his life, so he'd gone to the training room, fully aware the dark elf would be there. He'd thought himself prepared for the unavoidable lessons in humility. Apparently he'd been wrong.

The sword withdrew and a booted foot poked at his ribs. "Get up."

Elaith swallowed, unable to move or breathe. It wasn't the ache with which the welter of bruises and cuts responded to the prodding; that, he could ignore. He hadn't known, until today, that he was capable of such deep, all-consuming resentment. After centuries of careful numbness this intensity of feeling was excruciating.

Zaknafein was looking down at him, eyes lit up with amusement, mouth quirked in that faintly sardonic way of his. "Get up, _Darthiir_."

There was a moment where Elaith leapt to his feet, barreling into the dark elf and hitting him in the gut, hard, watching him double over, waiting until he straightened and hitting him again. But before that moment could come to pass Zaknafein sauntered to the middle of the floor and stood there waiting, grinning at him, arrogance incarnate.

A kind of calm fell over Elaith then and he got to his feet and gathered his swords. The dark elf's grin broadened, became a smirk, the white flash of his teeth visible in the dim light. Elaith saw him take a prowling step forward, the deadly grace making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

They circled each other, one coldly furious and one amused, their feet making no sound on the marble floor. Elaith sensed the drow's stance shift and struck first, taking the offensive for the first time that day. Metal gleamed, rang out across the room in a sudden violent clash and Zaknafein laughed, a low delighted sound, the attack skittering harmlessly off his blades. Faster than thought his swords swept upward, driving Elaith back a step. Elaith recovered, not shifting to a defensive position, not giving ground, and his own weapons lashed out again. Zaknafein blocked with insulting ease but, by good fortune, Elaith's leading blade slid along one of his, then skipped off a bracer, rending leather and flesh.

Elaith saw the cut was deep across the drow's hand and felt it like a fire in his blood, urging him on. It wasn't enough to make the dark elf lose his grip, though, and Elaith watched him warily, expecting… anything. Anything but the utter, almost comical astonishment written all over Zaknafein's face as he took a backward step, both weapons down, and stood staring at his hand. Puzzled, Elaith looked too. Jagged lines of blue light raced down the forearm, a shimmering tracery of veins and the outline of bones visible under the chain mail. Zaknafein remained very still, the astonishment on his face giving way to something Elaith didn't try to decipher. Instead he watched a radiant succession of blue sparks flicker across the wound, linger there for a short while and die away, the whole bizarre spectacle ending at once.

Like most of his people he had the ability to sense magic and had carefully honed those senses in the past, when they'd been very useful, before powerful artifacts became scarce. At the moment the residue of magic in the room was plain enough that he didn't even have to focus to detect it. Definitely with Zaknafein himself as its source but there was also something odd about it, like an off-key note in an otherwise perfect harmony. Elaith frowned, recalling how the wandering magelights had swarmed around the dark elf on their journey through the city. The veiled presence of strong magic had to have been there all along, even if it hadn't occurred to him then because the drow clearly disdained it.

It made sense, all of it.

Sheathing his weapons Elaith reached out and took Zaknafein's hand in his. Worn leather glove, palm open, and beneath it flesh and bone. Nothing strange about it except the cut had gone, sealed without a trace of a scar. He touched the place where it had been and felt something like a long welt under the skin, a little hot to the touch. Zaknafein jerked, as if he hadn't been aware of the contact until then, and violently yanked his hand free. He left the training room without a word, tension palpable in every line of his body.

Elaith followed him shortly, intent on finding out more before the dark elf could drink himself into a stupor. He had a fair guess about what he'd just seen and Zaknafein's shocked reaction to it really peaked his curiosity.

The drow took his sweet time with the bath but he wasn't going to complain about that. He gave it an hour, then returned to the guest suite next to the training hall that Zaknafein had appropriated. The door had no locks and Elaith pushed it ajar without knocking. This was his home, after all, and an uninvited guest was not a subject to the rules of hospitality, as far as he was concerned.

Zaknafein was in the bedroom, lounging on the bed, chain mail and boots and all, arms crossed beneath his head. He sat up, squinting at the magelight Elaith had conjured, and shot him a look of affronted disbelief. Elaith's own irritation, always present in his company, sharpened considerably but he turned the light down. He hadn't come to antagonize the drow.

"You've no idea what that was, do you?" he asked without a prelude.

Zaknafein scowled, then shook his head. His sheathed swords were placed over the covers, within immediate reach. Predictably there was a bottle of wine on the side table, although it appeared he had yet to begin the drinking spree.

"I think I do," Elaith told him as he crossed the floor. "Let me see your hand." He leaned down and without waiting took hold of it.

Zaknafein drew a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, and for a second he looked as if he wanted to smash that hand into Elaith's face but he controlled it with a visible effort. They stared at each other, joined by Elaith's grasp. Elaith kept a stranglehold on his patience and wondered if they should make it through the next hour without seriously trying to kill one another. He didn't understand this anger, and he was damn tired of walking on eggshells and feeling helpless. It made him shaky, his own temper ready to erupt.

He blinked.

Anger was easier than fear.

He looked at the drow, then, really looked, and it was as if an unsolved mystery clicked into place with a sudden insight. For the first time he saw Zaknafein not as a representative of a people he'd been raised to despise, or an infuriating disruption to his affairs, or a supernaturally undefeatable opponent, but simply another mortal being, a sentient conglomeration of life. There was darkness, and danger to spare - reflexes honed to perilous sharpness that mocked what he'd thought of as skill; abiding paranoia, brutally conditioned to become second nature; and the inevitable cruelty and violence. But for all that the dark elf was only a person, not invulnerable, scarred, with his own needs and fears - a person, no more than that, as fundamentally alone as Elaith himself.

A shift of perception, almost like looking at someone else, someone different, and Elaith found the calm he'd been striving for the whole day without success. "Just give me a few moments, will you?" he said to the drow. "Then I'll tell you about it."

It took Zaknafein some time to consider the genial tone, head turned to the side in a now-familiar gesture, but in the end he nodded. He hadn't spoken since the incident, not that Elaith really minded.

He started at the spot where the cut had been but found nothing there; even the welt beneath the skin had disappeared. "Take that off," he ordered, plucking at the torn glove. When Zaknafein complied Elaith pointed at the chain mail. "This too." The drow glared at him coldly at that, so he explained, "There was magic used in the crafting and it will get in the way."

He saw the hesitation, the uncertainty. For a long awkward span of moments Zaknafein didn't move and his face was shuttered, wary, eyes watchful. Eventually he unclasped the bracers and slid them off one by one, working open the buckle and discarding his belt, pulling the chain mail off over his head. The shirt he wore underneath got caught in the armor and he took that off too, evidently not caring to extricate it.

He was really quite beautiful, Elaith thought, disconcerted at noticing. But it was hard to miss the animal grace of the body revealed, the purity of line, and whatever else Elaith might be, his core sensibilities remained elven. Aesthetics mattered a great deal.

Zaknafein's eyes grew sharp when he saw Elaith was studying him. Turning away he grinned fleetingly, the barest quirk of his mouth, and stripped off the remaining glove. The grin flustered Elaith more than a little, even if he consoled himself with thinking the drow had probably just found wearing the one glove ridiculous.

Annoyed, though mostly with himself this time, he sat down on the edge of the bed and once again clasped Zaknafein's hand in his. Running his fingers gingerly upward, concentrating, he found what he was looking for on the inside of the arm, near the bicep – a swirl of dotted lines shaped almost like a glyph of some kind. "There," he said, brushing his fingertips over it, certain now, slowly tracing the strange pattern. It wasn't tangible of course but he could sense the magic, its power and the taint in it, without much effort. "There's your spellscar."

Zaknafein freed his arm from Elaith's grasp, without rancor but looking dubious and uneasy, and began to feel at the spot.

"You cannot find it by touch," Elaith said mildly. "It isn't physical. It is a… a wild magic of sorts. That is, a magical anomaly induced by exposure to the Spellplague. Sometimes it disfigures, sometimes does nothing. In rare cases it grants special abilities. Yours clearly does. The good news is those are always beneficial, as far as I know. What's more, I've never seen or heard of a spellscar that would heal without a conscious effort. Normally it takes a great deal of knowledge and quite a bit of experimentation to master the energy - "

"What is this 'Spellplague'?" Zaknafein interrupted. He sounded vaguely curious.

Elaith stared at him, feeling as if he'd somehow missed several important points in the conversation. "You know nothing about the Spellplague. The murder of the goddess Mystra, the collapse of the Weave… No?" He couldn't help a small incredulous laugh. "Where in the Abyss have you been for the last ten years?"

Something flickered across the dark elf's face, gone too fast to be read before he controlled his expression. He reached over to pick up the wine from the side table but didn't open it, only toyed with the bottle, rolling it between his palms, looking thoughtful. Elaith watched him out of the corner of his eye, distractedly fascinated with the fluid ripple of muscles, unable to stop himself.

A long measuring stare seemed to take him apart. Elaith started, glancing up involuntarily, pulse skipping. Zaknafein was observing him through narrowed eyes.

This was really becoming absurd, and fast, Elaith acknowledged ruefully. He gestured at the drow's armor and clothes. "You can put that back on."

One eyebrow raised a fraction, Zaknafein shifted on the bed, with solemn grace resettling cross-legged, summarily ignoring the suggestion. The movement released a faint scent, bath soaps and something else, unidentifiably unique, irrationally alluring.

Acutely aware of the dark elf's nearness Elaith rose abruptly to his feet. "There are books in the upstairs library if you care to read about the Spellplague," he said, with an effort managing something close to his usual asperity. "Some of them are in Common, I believe. As for the spellscar, since it obviously does not interfere with normal functions it is, at worst, a lot of untapped potential. I would advise that you try and explore its properties."

"No," Zaknafein said categorically, setting the bottle back on the table with a thud, as if to add finality to the word. Elaith couldn't tell whether it was apprehension or the professed general dislike of magic.

______________________

_11 Kythorn, The Year of the Silent Death (1395 DR)  
Waterdeep_

Elaith finished off the letter, reread it and signed his name. Staring blankly at it he sat and contemplated his choices. He could go to the training room or he could get barking drunk. The latter might be preferable, at that, but he'd done it for a couple of days already and the novelty was beginning to wear off. The wine cellar had definitely taken some major damage as of late.

He was thankful he no longer employed elven servants and equally as thankful the help he did employ didn't actually live in the manor, else he'd probably have none left. This way he had the meals prepared on a regular basis, at least, and someone cleaned up the mess and made the beds.

It had, all in all, been a wretched tenday. Elaith had contacted Calimport several times but hadn't bothered Entreri, just spoken with the same freckled woman who, with unchanging politeness, informed him that Jarlaxle was still unavailable. He'd left the Blackstone manor only once since Zaknafein had taken up residence there. He'd had some business with the Thieves Guild, so he'd simply gone to attend to it. He hadn't caught sight of the dark elf, though he'd been looking, until at the doorstep of the guildhouse. He couldn't rightly argue with Zaknafein in view of the peepholes - not that doing it elsewhere would have produced better results - so he'd had no choice but to bring the drow with him. In the end it had turned out to be beneficial because Zaknafein's scowling presence had frightened the daylights out of the halfling guild leader and the negotiations had gone very smoothly after that. But Elaith, who was generally good about learning by repetition, hadn't tried to go out anymore. Business could wait.

It wore on him to be tethered to the manse he didn't really like to begin with and never used for long. But it was the lesser of the two evils when compared to having a highly unpredictable deadly drow trail after him wherever he went. Not to mention said drow was actively sought by the City Watch.

For years now Elaith and the Captain of the Watch, a wily, pedantic, straight-laced human who had the tenacity of a terrier and by no means lacked intelligence, enjoyed a special kind of friendship. The human knew Elaith was behind most of the shady business that went on in his town, and Elaith knew that he knew, and the Captain knew that Elaith knew that he knew. There was never any proof, of course. For his part Elaith quite delighted in the chase; the human, not so much. He'd piss himself silly from sheer joy if Elaith were caught out at something, anything - and there was Zaknafein, conveniently wanted for murder. Of the Watchmen, no less. Not that this whole thing should be anything to really worry about but it would make for another headache to deal with, and not a minor one.

The worst of it was that, if he were honest with himself - and Elaith usually was - he'd have to admit his problem was largely self-inflicted. Zaknafein might be the greatest fighter on the face of Toril but he was one drow. Elaith had more than enough resources to have one drow removed from his life permanently and in a variety of ways… had he wanted to.

To put it plainly, it was his cock. Ever since the affair with the spellscar he couldn't quite get it under control. If he'd thought the training sessions supremely uncomfortable before, this had taken it to a whole new level. Add a fair amount of self-deprecation into the mix, and there was the recipe for perfect misery.

He'd never suffered from the ridiculous compulsion to deny himself the pleasures he desired but his life was generally well-ordered because he knew which whims to allow and which to resist. This one definitely belonged in the latter category. That aside, he'd never hesitated to take what he wanted, either, or at least make an effort at it. But this scenario was wrong on so many levels Elaith found himself not really caring to think on it too closely, much less act.

His tastes generally ran toward the opposite gender, although that part he could put aside easily enough. The fact that this was a drow, while disturbing, he could also deal with - when all was set and done, attraction had nothing to do with reason. Elaith understood that. But this wasn't just any male drow. This was someone around whom he felt, to be blunt, rather… out of his depths, and there had simply been no experience in his centuries of existence that he could draw upon for that.

For his part Zaknafein was perfectly aware of the probability simmering between them, Elaith was sure of it, and the dark elf by no means baited or enticed him. But he point blank refused to dance around Elaith's compunctions, just like he'd done during that discussion about the spellscar in his rooms, and seemed content with the impasse. He went about the business of bruising Elaith's body and pride with dismaying consistency, and if he wanted anything more he didn't show it except for the heat he radiated whenever the spar brought them close together.

The eventual outcome, Elaith had decided, would be one of the two – they'd either fuck each or kill each other. Possibly both. Hopefully not at the same time. He was in no particular rush to arrive there.

______________________

_12 Kythorn, The Year of the Silent Death (1395 DR)  
Waterdeep_

They were rolling over and over, grappling, weapons discarded, the dark elf's body first on top and then beneath his. Shock gave the drow the opportunity to reverse their positions again and Elaith found himself pushed flat on his back and held against the floor. He really had no idea why Zaknafein had knocked him down in the first place; the only warning had been his legs going out from under him. He looked up into a smug, amused face and snarled, "Get the fuck off me!"

Zaknafein's face was inches away, unsmiling now, eyes glinting with something other than magelight. Elaith sucked in air and struggled to breathe evenly as some primitive part of him, deep and hungry, responded to the scent of sweat and musk. He closed his eyes, not wanting to look.

A strong thigh pressed between his own.

"For a tenday you've been asking for it. I grow tired, _Darthiir_." The words were whispered with tingling intimacy against his skin as his hips were pulled upward and Zaknafein ground into him, slow and hard, drawing out hunger.

Elaith jerked involuntarily and felt his face flush. It was happening, he thought with a mixture of dread and relief, and something reckless stirred in him that didn't care about what was safe or sane. He opened his eyes. There was less than a breath of space between them.

Zaknafein's lips were shockingly soft when they touched him.

He didn't fight the fingers tangling in his hair, roughly turning his head to the drow's desire, and opened for the hot brazen tongue. Zaknafein bit his lower lip until it stung and licked the marks with quick light strokes that both maddened and soothed. Feeling like there was nothing in the world but that sinful mouth Elaith almost came when his cock was seized through the leathers and the sudden crude squeeze brought him to clamoring arousal. Shuddering like a horse under a whip he ran his hands over the tight muscles of the drow's ass. Zaknafein laughed softly as if he'd expected just that and the pressure of his weight eased off.

Elaith pushed himself up on one elbow, panting. A grip on his arm urged him upward. He went, heart pounding, and watched Zaknafein unbuckle his belt. The chain mail and the undershirt followed before the dark elf unlaced his leathers. His eyes gleamed like twin coals as he took Elaith's hand and brought it down to his own cock, folding the fingers firmly around it.

Elaith inhaled a sharp breath, doubly aroused and panicked at once. The backs of his fingers brushed a flat stomach, the skin there warm and silky-smooth. The cock was hard and heavy in his hand. He recognized the greedy hunger in it and his own hunger was too powerful. He tightened his grasp, feeling the pulse of blood against his palm. Zaknafein made a faint sound and pushed into his hand, leaning forward, his mouth hot against Elaith's throat. Demanding fingers tilted his head back, baring more of his throat to the melting heat, and he gave way, nearly blind with the sharp stinging pleasure of the graze of teeth over his skin.

A death grip on his wrist jolted him out of it. He let go, realized distantly that he was being backed up against the wall, and put his hand out to steady himself against the drow's shoulder.

Once he started to work on his belt Zaknafein bent down to undo his own boots and, when they were off, stripped the leathers away. Looking perfectly at ease he stood and watched Elaith struggle out of his armor. The light glanced off the dark skin, rendering his muscles in high relief, hips and thighs drawn in powerful lines. It made Elaith's mouth go dry and his breath catch in his throat. He tugged off the rest of his clothes with purposeful efficiency.

He wasn't prepared to see the answering flash of response, the drow looking as suddenly breathless as he. Zaknafein moved, closing the distance between them, and took his mouth with blunt, insistent urgency. Elaith spread his hands across the strong back. His cock was heavy and throbbed with every glancing touch. Their tongues met and he drew out the kiss, parting only long enough to gulp more breath.

Callused fingers closed on his shoulder and dug in, demanding that he turn around. When he didn't yield to the silent command Zaknafein broke the kiss. The heat in his eyes had iced over, becoming in an instant something darker, more dangerous, like the hard glitter of a weapon's edge. Before Elaith knew it he was slammed into the wall with bone-splitting force. While he was relearning how to breathe he was caught around the waist and in a blur of motion spun about, Zaknafein's weight behind him pinning him there. Cold with shock and furious, his cheek resting against the cool marble, he shoved back, trying to buck the drow off. The smooth surface gave him no purchase to brace his hands and he got slammed into it again for the effort. His arm was seized and twisted ruthlessly behind his back and his legs kicked wide apart.

A hand wedged itself between his thighs and cupped his balls, rolling them slowly in their sac, sadistically erotic. Elaith's breath stuttered. Any thoughts of resistance eroded under the renewed arousal. He stopped struggling and bit his lip, steeling himself to bear it. Once it ended he leaned gratefully on the wall and made a concerted effort to keep his breathing steady. A finger traced from the back of his neck down his spine, slipping into the cleft between his buttocks, almost teasing. His cock was taken in hand at the same time as the finger pushed into him, ungentle. He gasped, tensing, strung out between apprehension and want, but the finger moved deep inside him, hunting down the place that responded with a sharp thrilling surge. All the breath left his body in a rush and he writhed, needing to push forward and backward at once.

There was a filthy chuckle in his ear. "No longer angry, are you?"

Elaith could spare it no mind. The hand stroked him and the finger worked him from the inside and pleasure rose and spread all over, thick and sweet. He could feel the warmth of Zaknafein's body all along his back and the solid heat trapped between them, nudging at his ass. When teeth sunk into the taut muscle at the top of his shoulder, the flare of pain was as good as the pleasure burning along his nerves. The finger pulled out abruptly and it drove him over the precarious edge. He cried out and came in one long fluttering pulse, spilling himself into Zaknafein's hand.

Before the shockwaves of it smoothed out a cock slid into the warmth between his buttocks, riding back and forth with the deliberate shift of the drow's hips. Elaith was still staggering along from one moment of awareness to the next when the cock tucked up against him, barely slick with his own cooling come. His pulse leapt as it breached him and he let out a whimper, nothing he could have controlled. The blunt pressure was uncomfortable, terrifying, and Zaknafein's hands caught his hips in a grip like a vice and stayed poised in case he didn't submit to the cock forcing its way into his body.

He'd long since forgotten how to relax for this and it hurt like Nine Hells and worse. One hand tilted his hips, steadying him, no quarter given, and there was nothing he could do except be still and try to endure. The drow's breathing was harsh and ragged in his ears. By the time Zaknafein buried himself balls-deep inside him Elaith could scarcely breathe but he turned his face blindly for the kiss that was offered. The mouth was lush and soft, almost tender. It helped, stealing his attention until the muscles cramped around the cock in his ass finally relaxed.

When the pain went he sighed into the kiss and the mouth abandoned him. Zaknafein flexed and moved, pulling out, then thrust in again, and again, angling Elaith's hips, and the next stroke set off a burst of annihilating pleasure, as abrupt and sharp as the pain had been. Delirious with it Elaith stifled a sob and pushed back, shaking, his own cock hard once again.

Fucking him in a slow, easy rhythm that made him greedy for more by the moment, firing shocks of searing heat through his body with each thrust, Zaknafein whispered into his ear, "Ask me now." The voice was silky, merciless with knowledge.

Understanding came. Elaith stayed silent, fighting it. The game was intimately familiar but never before from this side.

"Ask, _Darthiir_."

The thrusting stopped.

Elaith rocked back against the body that strained behind him and tightened his muscles, dizzy with triumph at the resulting moan.

Zaknafein froze. Swore, hoarse and strangled but still controlled. Breathing in deep he grabbed one of Elaith's hands and pulled it behind his back, then the other hand. Elaith almost howled with frustration when the cock filling him withdrew to its tip, some unknown and unsuspected hunger prodding at him.

Zaknafein laughed low against his skin. "Say it."

For an timeless time Elaith was held immobile, quivering with unspoken need, unwilling to voice it even if it was written all over him. In the end it subdued him, seduced him, beguiling his complicity in his own undoing. "Fuck me," he said, choking on the words.

After that it was hard and rough and perfect. Zaknafein's muscles worked against the backs of Elaith's thighs, the throb of pleasure unbearably exquisite where the cock was hitting the nerves inside him again and again, almost like a deep ache. Zaknafein was making exposed, breathless sounds with each advance, clearly at the end of his restraint, and Elaith was astonished that the drow had the care and the presence of mind to reach over and close a hand around his cock.

The grip was strong and sure, bringing a focus to the haze of want. Elaith rocked into it and the fingers tightened, sliding up then down his length, satisfying a hunger that had seemed unappeasable. Gasping he surged against the taut body behind him and felt his muscles clench as pleasure crested, inexorable, taking thought and breath. He was still coming, sweet and endless, wailing his relief to the ceiling when Zaknafein cried out too, thrust into him one last time and went still, biting hard into Elaith's shoulder, throbbing sharply deep inside him.


End file.
